Role Model
by Alone in the Desert
Summary: On heroes, authority figures and family loyalty Anders vs. Wyldon, Owen vs. himself. Standalone


Role Model 

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Disclaimer: All characters and locations herein are the property of Tamora Pierce. Plot and wording are my own. 

Anders' old injury was a nuisance as ever, discomforting him as he dismounted from his mare. A curly-haired boy in Cavall colors stood ready at the gate, and Anders handed him Lane's reins and strode off purposefully, not waiting to see if the mare was tended or stopping to ask directions. He didn't need to, knowing his host's ways as well as he did. 

Nearly twenty years had passed, but old habits died hard. For a fraction, that moment between his knock and the door's opening, Page Anders stood shivering outside the training master's office awaiting a reprimand. But the visible aging of the man who let him in, as well as the pain his leg gave him when he moved, jolted him back to the present. 

"My lord of Cavall," said Anders formally. 

"Sir Anders," replied Lord Wyldon, and the sincere greeting in his voice and demeanor rattled the younger knight. Family is family, he reminded himself sternly. Kin must stand together. 

"I did not expect to see you, of all people," confessed Wyldon sincerely. 

"You think we forget you as soon as we leave the palace, don't you?" Anders was honestly curious. 

"In all the years I served as the king's training master," Wyldon asked, "how many of my pages do you think came by to see me? Not visit the younger pages when they were squires, not come to choose their own squires, but me, their training master." 

Anders was silent. 

"Would it surprise you to know, Sir Anders," Lord Wyldon sounded almost bitter, "that you are the fourth?" 

Still, Anders said nothing. His memory was vivid -- he could not forget his training master had he tried, and he felt sure his year-mates, at least, retained a similarly powerful impression of the man who left his mark upon every warrior who met him, especially young and impressionable pages. He could scarcely imagine how the likes of Wyldon of Cavall might slip from the memory of one of his former charges. 

"Owen, bring refreshments for myself and Sir Anders." He heard these words spoken through his haze of thoughts. 

"So, yes," Wyldon spoke again, rubbing his arm, "I always thought that my pages forgot all about me as soon as they found a knight master. Please, sit." 

Anders sat. "Well, that's not so." 

Wyldon raised an eyebrow "Is that true?" 

"I assure you, milord, that it is," Anders was quite adamant. 

"Enough of this," said Wyldon briskly, as his squire entered the room, bearing refreshments. "Tell me of yourself. Your injury is from the War of the Immortals, I believe?" 

Anders nodded. "The same as yours, milord." His voice was mild but grim. 

"Are you married?" the aging knight prodded on. 

"I wed when my parents and youngest sister were away on behalf of the crown. I believe you know my sister, Keladry," his face was purposeful enough that Wyldon had to know he had not reached that topic quite by chance. 

"Yes, I do," acknowledged Wyldon. "Have you children of your own?" 

"Yes, you know my sister," went on Anders, his voice dangerously soft. "She was one of your pages." 

"Anders -- " Wyldon started saying but was cut off. 

"I doubt any of your pages would -- could! -- forget you, milord. Do you think Keladry will? Forget, I mean. Forget the probation, the singling out, the bias that was known to all, the humiliation that she never spoke of, not in words. Do you think she'll forget how you denied her that which you advocate most strongly: chivalry?" 

Lord Wyldon stiffened. "I did my duty," he retorted. "Any man in my position would make mistakes." 

"Do you know I looked up to you?" Anders now asked, his face fuller of sorrow than anger. "When I was a squire, all I could ever think of is could I be as good a knight as you. Even after I got my shield I always thought of you as a paragon of chivalrous values, the values I aspired to be worthy of." 

"All that's changed, now. How do I treat the man who shaped my ideals, having borne witness to him breaking them most savagely? There was nothing chivalrous about the way you treated my sister." 

The older knight was silent. 

Owen stole a glance at the limping man when he handed him the reins to his horse, then watched him ride soberly out of the keep. He seemed no less preoccupied than he'd been when he'd ridden in. Shaking his curly head, Squire Owen returned to his own tasks. 

"Dear Kel, 

"Guess who rode into Fort Mastiff this morning. Your brother, the one with the leg. I think milord called him Anders. He came to see milord. I know I shouldn't have, but I listened at the door. Kel, I'd never have done it, you know I don't like to snoop, but for how your brother looked when he came in. You should have seen him, he looked so angry! I never would have thought someone could get angry that quietly, except he looked just like you doing it. 

"He talked to Lord Wyldon about you. He was talking about how unfair milord was to you, and it was unknightly and all. Which is strange, because he started out by saying some really nice things about how he admired milord as a page and wanted to be just like him. It made me think maybe he wasn't angry at all, just looking forward to seeing milord after all this time. After all, he's pretty old. And milord told him that pages _never_ come back to visit him! Well, almost never. 

"It's just, I thought you should know this because it's nice how your brother stands up for you, even though it's really too late. I would've thought he was wasting his breath and why couldn't he have come when you were still a page and it would do some good, but he said you didn't tell him Lord Wyldon was being mean to you. Why didn't you tell him? Did you think he wouldn't believe you, or something? Please write back. 

"Yours, 

"Owen of Jesslaw." 

Owen read over his letter. When he finished, his eyes were uncharacteristically sad. Dejectedly he set the paper, the ink on which had not even had time to dry, to the flame of the candle on his desk. He watched the bright flames crawl across his scrawled words and devour them, shaking his head at his own folly. 

"I would've sent it, Kel," he said to himself, "I really ought to have. But you're tool proud, and respect milord far too much." He bit his lip when the flame got too close to his fingers and hastily dropped the crumbling letter into his tin pencil-case. "For that matter, so do I," he added as an afterthought. Sighing, the squire got up from his desk and went to bed. 


End file.
